Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  MaxTone Records

  - FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE -

  8/14/1969

  CONTACT:

  Marv Feld, Maxine Solis

  Ph: 213 – 555 – 5478

  MAXTONE RECORDS INC. Debuts,

  Marv Feld At Helm

  8/14/1969, Van Nuys, Ca. – Marvin Feld, President of Superior Promotion, Inc., announced today the formation of MAXTONE RECORDS, a new recording and management corporation. Mr. Feld will act as Chief Executive. His duties will include A&R, record production, marketing, and talent management. He will be assisted by Vice President of Operations, Maxine Solis.

  Feld is a long-time music business figure. He has been president of Superior Promotion, an independent record promotion company, for 9 years. He began work with legendary promotion man John Riggano in 1957, and was also a popular entertainer in the South Bay area.

  “I am very excited to launch the next phase of my career” Feld said. “I’ve wanted to utilize my experience and contacts in the business for quite a while. Now seems to be the perfect time to jump into record production – there are totally unique opportunities in all aspects of the music world. And I mean to emphasize the word ‘World’.”

  First up for the new company will be a management and production contract with new artist CHARLES MANSON. “Charlie is a talent that I have been following here in Los Angeles” said Feld. “This is a very charismatic guy who has developed a following among the writers and players in the scene. He has a very unique and captivating presence, and his songs and performing are top-notch.”

  Location of the new MaxTone offices will be announced soon.

  Please contact the company at 213 – 555 – 5478 until further notice.

  There’s a Meetin’ Here Tonight

  Trad. Spiritual

  August 14, 1969

  10:30 pm

  California scrub oak burns hot and long. There was plenty of it on the Spahn ranch, a constant supply from old downed trees. Three logs crackled and roared in the firepit behind the stable on this night. It cast a devil’s dancing light on the rocks up the canyon wall.

  The Family was gathered around Charlie at the fire, hanging on his words and guitar.

  “ … ya feel it in the morning

  pressure builds all day

  Love is not an option, baby

  Take love, make love,

  Love’s the only way …’

  Everyone on the ranch knew this song – it had become a kind of work song for everyday chores. But now, they were singing it with Charlie, the writer and their leader. Some called him Father.

  Kat gazed at Charlie. This was one of the moments when she considered him her man. He is really on fire tonight, thought Kat. I hope to God this new recording thing works out! He’s been rejected so many times before. She could tell he had renewed energy, and it wasn’t all from the few hours of sleep he had caught. They had made it in the hours after dinner, and he had been like a different man – more gentle, less distracted.

  The group finished singing Charlie’s song and they all applauded and cheered. A new joint was making its way around the circle, and Charlie took it.

  “This is a new day, children! Remember this day!” He toked deeply. “The next time you hear that song, it will be on your stereos, man!” The Family cheered.

  Charlie started to tap a rhythm on the guitar. This was a more insistent beat than the last song. Not faster – just somehow more intense. His eyes swept the crowd, looking into the eyes of each person in his Family. As the tapping became more like drumming, many in the group picked up the beat on anything at hand - an old tire, a branch hitting a bucket, two sticks slapped together, palms on a car hood.

  Now that his group had the rhythm, Charlie started to play chords to it. He was double strumming the strings – playing the chords on the upstroke and downstroke of his right hand. It helped increase the excitement and the group rose up.

  Charlie suddenly jumped up, still playing, and struck several poses of old rock icons – Elvis, Chuck Berry, a little Bo Diddley. The small crowd yelled encouragement, then they also got up and began to dance.

  “Tenn – Uh – See!” Charlie sang from one of his songs, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “Tenn – Uh – See!” came the immediate response.

  It was still very warm. The rocks silently gave off heat from the day’s sun and the fire was strong. As they danced in a mob circle, one girl after another threw off her shirt. The bare-breasted girls formed a line, howling, and snake-danced past Charlie, each trying to snatch a kiss as they swirled past. Then they broke apart and embraced each other in a random, stoned square dance. Some lingered together in a kiss before spinning away.

  Charlie began to sing the chorus of another song that fit with the rhythm.

  “ … Can you feel, are those feelin’s real

  Look at your game girl

  Go on look at your game girl …”

  The entire group was dancing and singing along now, a tribal stomp and sway. These were the moments Manson craved the most – when he had their perfect attention. Egoless, they would echo anything he would say or do, without hesitation. This was the molten center of Manson’s personality, constantly needing to be fed. Acid, speed, weed – no drug approached he same level of feeling he had when he could exercise his control over people.

  On the last line of a chorus, on a long sustained high note, Charlie brought the song to a close with a crashing guitar chord and a rebel yell. Everyone clapped, cheered, and moved to embrace him.

  “Can you imagine us doing this at the Shrine, Charlie?” Kat shouted, ecstatic. “It will be so far out! Two thousand people, all dancing to ‘Look at your Game!”’

  Charlie laughed. But Kat saw through his eyes that the possibilities were beginning to gel in his mind.

  “Car coming in!” yelled a man at the edge of the crowd.

  A car was careening down the road to the ranch, its headlight beams jerking through the dust over the road and the brush. It came to a sharp stop in the dirt plaza.

  While the group watched, tense and silent, a man got out of the passenger side and stood up unsteadily. He waved his hat, and the car moved away, looped around, and headed back out to the Pass Road. As it turned the headlights fell on the short, stocky man as he put his battered old cowboy hat on his head.

  “It’s only Shawn,” said Squeaky.

  The crowd relaxed and reached for water, seats, and joints. Charlie sat down in his favorite spot – a tree stump that was the perfect height for playing guitar or standing atop to address his folks.

  Shawn soon walked up to the group. From his walk you could see that he had spent his whole life around horses, and that he was very drunk.

  “Manson!” he growled. “Where’s my car, man? I gotta go!”

  “I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Shorty!” Manson giggled, playing to his crowd. “Looks like you’ve had your fun tonight. You’ll be lucky to make it to your bunk, man!” Everyone laughed.

  “Shit, fucker! I’m serious. Need my car. Give me the keys!” Shawn, or Shorty, as they called him, was a hand at the ranch and an old-time horse wrangler. He had been in too many western films and TV shows to count. If a show had a horse in it, Shorty was in there somewhere.

  “Look, man” said Manson. “It ain’t here. Go sleep it off, ya old drunk man.” Manson turned back to the group. He sensed that he was losing them. This Shorty guy was a stone bummer.

  “Dammit! I didn’t loan it to nobody!” He stumbled up close to Manson. “Who’s got it? When they comin’ back?” Shorty was becoming more and more aggressive.

  Manson stood up, giving his guitar to Kat. He took his time lighting a cigarette, then turned to face Shorty.

  “Look, old man, the car is gone. Tex took it. He crashed it – it’s all burned up. All gone. Now get out of here!”

  Manson had told the whole Family about the crash earlier, at dinner. Almost all the women cried, but Charlie assured every
one that the accident was just that – a cosmic change of plans… Could happen to anyone… All four were already coming back to this world as new energy… You can’t hold on to life like a child gripping his favorite toy.

  “Fuck you! Asshole!” Shawn shouted, and moved to throw a punch at Manson. But Steve Corgan, sensing trouble, had come up behind him and now grabbed Shorty around the chest. Steve knew this couldn’t last long – Shorty was as strong as a horse. But Shorty was so drunk he couldn’t put it all together.

  “Klem!” shouted Corgan. “Get over here!”

  Klem came over slowly, eyes wide and glazed. He was high on something, probably LSD. “Wow!” he said, watching Steve and Shorty in stoned fascination.

  “Grab his arm, idiot!”

  Klem suddenly became more alert, and took Shorty’s left arm from Steve. This was enough to restrain Shorty for the moment.

  “Shorty!” Manson yelled, “you little motherfucker, you are always such a fucking downer! I will tell you again: Tex and Sadie are dead, so are Linda and Patty. All in your motherfucking car, asshole. Do you think that’s a coincidence, old man? That shit piece of junk?”

  Shorty sagged a little, and dropped his head. “Shit, man, I don’t know, I don’t know …”

  “Now, fucking get lost, Shorty. Talk to me tomorrow about the car.”

  Shorty stood silent for a moment, then had a new thought. “I – I gotta call the insurance. There’s gotta be some money in it.”

  “Shorty! Not tonight! Go!”

  “Damn you guys! I should call the cops. You stole my car, man!” Shorty mumbled drunkenly.

  “Shut up, asshole! You ain’t callin’ nobody, ya old clown!” Manson hissed. He stared at Shorty and his expression changed from anger to a darker tone.

  Shorty swayed in the arms of Steve and Klem. “Man, you got a cigarette?”

  “OK, Shorty – lets go up to the café,” Manson said. “I’ll get you some smokes.” Manson turned to the group. “Party’s over. Thank you, Mr. Shorty.” The rest of the Family drifted off to their tents, trailers and bedrolls.

  Manson took over from Steve, and Klem and Charlie half-dragged, half-pushed Shorty up the hill. They had some difficulty getting Shorty up the steps and into the café. “Sit down, Shorty,” Manson commanded, shoving him down into a chair. “I’ll get you the cigs.”

  Klem stood over Shorty as Manson went behind the bar. Waiting for a moment when he was sure Shorty was looking away, Manson trotted back, raising a crowbar over his head. He slammed it down hard on the back of Shorty’s head, just above the collar of his sweat-stained western shirt.

  Shorty was propelled by the impact and convulsions onto the floor. He was sprawled out making choking sounds and his right leg spasmed uncontrollably.

  Klem stood gaping. He couldn’t comprehend anything through the LSD he’d tossed down earlier.

  “C’mon!” Manson yelled as he grabbed one leg. “Get his other leg - Let’s go!”

  Klem bent down to grab the twitching leg. He pulled hard, but he had only grabbed Shorty’s boot. The boot came off and Klem went flying back onto his ass. He got up laughing, holding the boot up like a trophy.

  “Damn you piece of shit! Klem! We gotta get him out the back!”

  Klem dropped the boot and got a grip on Shorty’s foot. The two men dragged the body through the kitchen and out the back door.

  Breathing heavily, Manson went back inside and checked for blood. There was none.

  Returning to Klem, he said, “Wait here. I’m gonna get Steve. Don’t let him make any noise, man, understand?” Manson pulled his Bowie knife and gave it to Klem. “Understand, man?’

  Klem took the knife as Manson ran off. He sat on a pail next to the kitchen door and watched Shorty’s eyelids twitch as he ran his fingers back and forth over the serrated edge of the blade.

  Manson was soon back with Steve. Steve stopped abruptly when he saw Shorty. “What the fuck?”

  “Had a little argument with Shorty, man. He pulled a knife, and I got the crowbar from behind the bar.” Manson laughed. “Maxwell’s silver hammer, man!”

  Steve stared, eyes wide. “Jesus! Is he dead?”

  Manson shrugged. “Don’t know, man.” He giggled. “That fucker has always been raggin’ on our trip. We gotta take him somewhere down by the tracks. He’ll be just an old drunk that got hit by a train. C’mon.” Steve could not think of anything to say.

  The men dragged Shorty quite a distance away from the movie town, past the road and the dry streambed until they reached a secluded spot near the railroad tracks. As they rested, Shorty began to regain some consciousness - his arms moving, automatically trying to lift himself up.

  “Damn you, Shorty!” Manson hissed, and jumped on Shorty’s back. “Klem! Come here and finish this! Fuck!”

  Klem still held Charlie’s Bowie knife, but couldn’t understand anything that was happening. He envisioned Manson as a wild dog, then a devil, and stood spellbound.

  Shorty began to make loud groaning, gasping noises. Manson let go and ran over to Klem.

  “Fuck!” He grabbed the knife from Klem’s hand and returned to Shorty. Manson put his knee in Shorty’s back and grabbed his head. He pulled Shorty’s head up enough to be able to get the knife blade underneath his neck, then jerked the blade upwards.

  There was a flash of blood, then another. As the blood pooled in the sand, Shorty’s body made gurgling sounds. Then the sounds stopped.

  All three men stood around the body, breathing in heavy, tense rhythms. There was an orange aura in the sky above the hills from the lights of the San Fernando Valley. I’m in hell thought Klem, still very high. He felt that image in every cell of his body.

  “Steve!” Manson ordered. “Go to the stable and get a shovel.”

  Twenty Flight Rock

  1957 Ned Fairchild

  August 16, 1969

  1:00 am

  On the Sunset Strip, the Hyatt Hotel was rocking. The Justice show was over and a small army of people had come from backstage at the Shrine Auditorium to seize control of the bar. Justice was a very successful pop/rock band and the people at the bar considered themselves part of that success, if not part of the band’s organization. Publicists, promoters, lawyers, graphic artists, dealers, sound engineers and every kind of rock flotsam were overjoyed to be where they thought the action was tonight.

  A gaunt man wearing a torn, pop-button western shirt and a straw cowboy hat rolled up at the edges bellowed into the bar from the doorway. “Swain! Alex Swain!”

  “Yo! Right here!” Alex Swain answered as he turned away from the bar. He was here to interview Jimmy McNeal, the lead singer and sole writer for Justice. Alex had been trailing him all day, from radio interviews to record signings to sound check at the Shrine – always promised the interview, which was always postponed for some reason. It was a simple pick-up job for Rolling Stone that was slowly turning into a career.

  “Are we on this time?” Alex asked, notebook in hand.

  “Yeah, I think he’s ready,” the man replied in a heavy London accent. “He’s up at the pool. Probably feelin’ no pain right about now.”

  They took the elevator to the rooftop pool – a sublime feature of the Riot House, which is what the rock community had dubbed this artist-friendly hotel.

  “Sorry - what was your name again?” Alex asked.

  “Chris.”

  “Chris … ?”

  The man eyed him. “Just Chris.”

  “You’re the road manager, right?”

  Chris studied the floor lights above the elevator doors. He nodded, saying nothing.

  “So – how was the show tonight? Was Jimmy happy with it?”

  “S’all right, I reckon. I thought they done better Tuesday, in San Francisco.”

  The doors opened and they walked out into the pool area. The entire LA Basin spread out before them in the view from the deck. Miles of twinkling lights were dimmed by a thin, gauzy brown blanket of smog. Even though it was
close to 1:00 am the pool was crowded with people – almost all associated in some way with Justice.

  Chris led Alex through a jumble of chaise lounges and knots of men and girls laughing and smoking in the warm night. They found Jimmy McNeal on a chaise near the edge of the deck, stripped to his underwear and dripping from a splash in the pool. He sipped from a straw planted in a tall glass. Three empty glasses lay about the lounger and a girl in bra and panties was squeezed in next to him, passed out, her mouth gaping like a landed fish.

  “Jimmy,” Chris said. “It’s the Rolling Stone guy. Carmine says you have to talk to him.” He abruptly turned and left, leaving Alex standing with his notebook.

  “Fuck!” Jimmy sighed and made a gesture with his arm that Alex took to mean: find a chair and sit down. He found a pool chair nearby and scraped it up close to Jimmy.

  “Jimmy? Alex Swain. I’m here for Rolling Stone tonight.”

  “Yeah, my manager told me you were around.”

  Alex tried to lighten it up. “You’re a busy guy, Jimmy!”

  McNeal snorted. “I suppose I am.”

  “I know you’re beat,” Alex offered, “so let’s try to keep this short. New album coming out soon, right?”

  “Um hmm.”

  Alex sagged inside. Another stoned, wordless wonder. He didn’t know which was worse anymore: the ones who couldn’t talk or the ones who wouldn’t shut up. Alex had gained success and trust in the music world over the last two years, earning a rep as a no-nonsense reporter. He had a straight-forward style and came from the same blue collar background as so many of his interview subjects.

  “Can you tell me more about it?” he asked.

  “Uh, I think there’s someone from RCA here somewhere – he could tell you.”

  “No – I mean … are you happy with it? What are your thoughts?”

  McNeal touched his sunglasses and made an imperceptible adjustment. “It’s pretty good. We got to use a 16 track this time.” His straw sucked wind. “Chris!” he shouted. “Damn it!”

  Road manager Chris broke away from a pack of people standing at poolside. “Yes, my liege?” he asked, laying on the Brit accent.